


King of Good Ideas

by dance_across



Category: due South
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, POV Ray Kowalski, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in Chicago, Ray caught Fraser in the act. And maybe gave him a little help along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Good Ideas

Eventually I tell Fraser that he talks in his sleep. Eventually I tell him how it was up in the Arctic, on our finding-the-Hand adventure where we never actually found any hand and I’m pretty sure the hand thing was metaphorical anyway so it doesn’t really matter. What matters is I tell him. He was sleeping and dreaming and talking about me, is what I say. What I _don’t_ say is that it started way before we ever went north.

I’m not sure what the case was, but it was definitely down in Chicago, before all the Muldoon stuff. Some murder, probably—although I guess considering Fraser was involved, it just as easily coulda been mouse-nappers or leaf-thieves or something like that—but the point is, we solved it. And we solved it _late_. Like after-midnight late. I remember Fraser being all covered in muck from whatever we were doing, and me too, and I remember him saying that he needed to buy new shampoo for the Consulate. He sounded miserable.

Me, I just rolled my eyes and told him that was dumb. “You can buy it tomorrow. Come shower at my place. You can crash on the couch.”

Fraser, over in the passenger seat, looked real alarmed. “That seems dangerous, Ray.”

“No, not crash like _crash_ ,” I told him. “Crash like sleep. You can sleep on my couch.”

He relaxed and thought about it a little. “That’s a very kind offer,” he finally said, scratching idly at the back of his neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him frown down at his hand. Probably there was dirt there. Yeah, I was definitely gonna give him first shower.

When we got back to mine, I shoved a towel and a washcloth at him, and told him anything in my shower was fair game for him to use. And because I’m the nicest guy ever, I made him some tea. Not the real way—I don’t have a kettle or anything, like he’s got in the Consulate—but I figured sticking a teabag and some water in a mug and then microwaving it has to count for something.

He came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and… yeah, and _nothing else_. Chest all bare, nipples dark and hard, and obviously it’s not like I was _looking_ at that stuff, obviously I wasn’t, but like, come on, Fraser.

(That’s what I thought back then, anyway. _Come on, Fraser._ Now I know better. Now I know he’s had the hots for me just as long as I’ve had ’em for him. Now I know he was probably teasing me on purpose. But back then, I just thought it was real unfair.)

“Do you have a plastic bag?” he asked. “I’ll need to transport my uniform back to the Consulate, preferably without getting mudstains all over your—”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “There’s tea in the microwave, okay? Just wait for the beep. I’m gonna rinse off, too.”

Fraser blinked at me. “Tea. I… thank you, Ray. That was thoughtful of you.”

Yeah, that was me, all kinds of thoughtful. I made him tea, I gave him a snack, and I made sure he was as comfy as a baby on my couch before I headed off to bed. A sneaky little part of my brain said that maybe if he was _real_ comfy, he wouldn’t want to sleep on that dumb cot ever again. He’d just keep staying over at mine. Good idea, right?

That’s me, too. King of good ideas. Oh yeah.

He went to bed, and I went to bed—and I woke up in the middle of the night, which isn’t unusual, right, because a guy just has to pee sometimes and there’s nothing you can do about it except _do it_ —and so I went to the bathroom, took care of business, and flushed before I remember that the flush always sounds real loud from the living room and Fraser’s out there tonight and, shit, I probably just woke him up.

So I went out to check on him, and as soon as I got into the living room, I started hearing these noises. Little huffing noises, or grunting or something, like almost snoring but not exactly. It was weird, is what I’m saying. So I went closer.

Fraser was on his back still, but his head was turned to the side. One arm had come up behind his head like he was trying to use it as a pillow, except there was _already_ a pillow there, so all the arm did was mash the pillow up against his face. Like _right_ up against his nose. It made me kinda wonder when was the last time that pillowcase got washed. I mean, I grabbed the thing right off my own bed, so….

Anyway, yeah. Fraser’s got his nose pressed into my pillow, and I’m all worried about what he’s smelling.

(Now I know: I shouldn’t have been worried. The pillow probably smelled like _me_ , and now that I know what I know about Fraser—this being the guy who buries his nose in my armpit whenever he gets a chance, not to mention behind my knees and against my neck and let’s not even _talk_ about what he gets like when that nose is anywhere near my balls—well, it explains a lot about that night, doesn’t it?)

I went over there, thinking I’d adjust his head, because he was smelling whatever he was smelling and he seemed real agitated about it… but then I get close enough to see something pretty interesting. The blankets I’d loaned him for the night had fallen onto the floor, which meant Fraser was covered by his white shorts and his white shirt and his white socks and nothing else. And that wasn’t even the interesting part. The interesting part was the tent, right there in his shorts.

Fraser. With a stiffie.

And here I’d been, thinking the guy was some kind of ultra-handsome ultra-sexless robot person.

“Come here,” he murmured, and that voice of his sounded so normal that for a second I was sure he was awake and he’d caught me staring. But then he said, “Mmm, come on,” and inhaled deeply against the pillow, and that time the words were just slurred enough that I knew he was dreaming.

I just kinda wondered who he was dreaming about. And I’ll admit it: I was real jealous of whoever it was.

(I know. I know. Hindsight is 20/20. Shut up.)

I went even closer, thinking maybe if I stuck around long enough, he’d tell me who should come here. But he didn’t say anything else. He just wriggled a little, and he kept his nose in that pillow, and that little tent situation kept on happening until it wasn’t even funny anymore. It just kinda made me feel bad for him. He wasn’t even _doing_ anything about it. Just lying there, with one hand curled behind his pillow and the other hand lying useless at his side.

I was tempted, right then, to take care of the problem for him. Ain’t the nicest thought I ever had, but it’s the truth. But at least I didn’t do it, right? At least I know that you don’t go around putting your hand on your best friend’s dick while he’s sleeping, just because you’re so into him that you can’t even deal with it and just because the sight of that tent thing is giving _you_ a stiff one, too. So that’s something.

But I could help him out another way, right? There was that hand of his, the not-pillow-holding one, and it wasn’t _doing_ anything. Just lying there, between Fraser’s body and the couch cushion. Driving me nuts.

I went around the back of the couch, leaned over, and touched his hand. It curled a little, almost into a fist, but he didn’t wake up. So I touched his hand again, and this time I _moved_ it a little, just a little, just up and across his thigh a bit. Not all the way or anything. Encouraging your sleeping buddy to take care of himself is one thing. Actually putting his hand there is something else. I wasn’t sure where the lines were—I’m still not, come to think of it, and maybe I should ask Fraser about that sometime—and I was trying real hard not to cross them.

But then Fraser moved his hand the rest of the way by himself. Opened his fist, wrapped it around his cotton-covered dick, and squeezed. And _sighed._

God, I thought I was gonna shoot off in my jammies, just looking at him.

_Go,_ I remember telling myself, right then, because that was definitely a line, and I definitely didn’t want to cross it. _Go back to bed. He’ll take care of his issue, you go take care of yours._

Like I said. I’m the king of good ideas.

Except did I listen to myself? No, I did not. I stayed there, watching transfixed as his hand moved up and down over himself, as his breathing grew harder and heavier, as one of his knees came up and his hand moved faster—

—and _then_ I listened to my own advice and got the hell out of there. But I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t because I was afraid of violating his privacy or nothing. It wasn’t because of lines, or crossing them. It was because a real important thought had dropped into my head as I was watching him touch himself, and it was this:

_The first time I see Fraser come, I want him to be seeing me, too._

I went back to my own bed, and I tried not to hear him moan as he came, and I tried not to picture that up-and-down hand as I got myself off with a few quick strokes. I’m not saying I _succeeded_ —but I damn well tried.

Next day, he didn’t say anything. Obviously, like he ever would. He just thanked me for the couch and the shower and the tea, and then he was off to work before I was even awake enough to make sentences.

And yeah, blame the not-really-awake-yet, or don’t, whichever, but either way, first thing I did when he left? I stuck my nose into that pillow he slept on, and I imagined I could still smell him there. I couldn’t, not really (my nose was never as good as his), but it was nice to think about.

I paid attention to him from then on, whenever we were sleeping near each other. Other than that first time, he didn’t say much while he was still in Chicago—probably because other than that first time, we didn’t sleep in the same room much unless it was for a stakeout or something, which meant he didn’t sleep too deeply. But once we were up north, in that tent? It was _Ray, hey, Ray,_ and _Your lips, Ray,_ and all sorts of similar whatnot.

Tonight, it’s “Ray, come closer,” murmured in syllables I can barely tell apart, as he curves his body against my side and nestles his face against my neck. Smelling me again. Always smelling, that one, and always licking, too.

He murmurs something else, and I can feel his dick hard against my hip. He moves a little. Grinds a little. But just like that first time, and just like every time since, his hand doesn’t move down there to help him out. Not on its own.

So it’s my move. I roll over onto my side, so my arm’s kinda cradling his head and his face is still in my neck and our fronts are pressed together. I scoot him closer, and I find his hand—his free one—and I nudge it, gentle like, toward his dick. Still asleep, he picks up the momentum and follows it through, reaching into his pajama bottoms and grasping himself, starting that up-and-down motion.

I hold him, and I wait, and just when the movement of his hand starts getting frantic, I lean over and kiss him. “Fraser,” I say, just sharp enough to wake him.

“Mmm,” he grunts, eyes opening blearily at first, then alarmed when he realizes what’s going on. His hand stops.

“Keep going,” I say, and kiss him again. “You just keep on going.”

“Ray, I—”

His voice is all shaky now. He’s close. My hand, the one that’s attached to the arm he’s using as a pillow, curls around to play with his hair. My other hand finds his hip. His hand slowly, cautiously resumes its movement, and it isn’t long before it finds that frantic pace from before.

“Come on,” I say, real quiet. “Come for me. Just keep your eyes open.”

He smiles, kind of strained. “You say that every time.”

“Yeah,” I say, because it’s true. Couple months we’ve been doing this, and no matter what’s making him come—his hand, my hand, my mouth, my ass—I always tell him to look at me. He always does it, too. “Come on, Fraser. That’s it. Come on.”

His hips jerk, and then go still. Wet heat bursts between us, and his eyes never close, and they’re so blue and he’s moaning my name and he’s mine, mine, mine.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a companion piece to [Circling](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5042725), which is the story of what happens when Ray tells Fraser about his sleep-talking.


End file.
